Lost and Found Family (3 page)

She took a breath. “About those messages you left...I apologize. I should come get his...no, I'm sorry, but I can't take the pony.”

“Now, don't be hasty. Until you're ready to decide, I'll find a spot for him somewhere.” He spoke as if the carousel horse was real. Like the General. “He's gorgeous, by the way, or he will be. Great advertising for my shop. Sure, why didn't I think of this before? No rush,” he added. “None at all. We'll let other people enjoy him for a while.”

Emma couldn't imagine having any use for the pony that only reminded her of loss, but she didn't get to say so. Footsteps sounded behind them on the walk.

“Emma.”

When Christian drew near, he nodded at Max, his eyes on her. “Our hour's up. Check's written. I already told Mom we're leaving.”

Emma tensed. “You go on home. I brought my car, remember?”

“Leave it. I'll drop you here in the morning before work.”

Max didn't speak. Emma gave the black-and-white horse, his large eyes shining like ebony, a last look. Then she blindly turned from the merry-go-round. In daylight there would be that familiar music again, the clanging of the bell, the laughter...

She could hardly speak. “Good night, Max.”

“'Night, Emma. Christian.” But then, before she took a step, his voice stopped her. “Do you know what they say about these carousel horses?”

Emma didn't know. She couldn't think at all, just then.

“There's an old saying among carvers,” he said. His tone gentled, as if he wasn't sure she would like the story. “In the winter the ponies go to sleep—all winter long—but when spring finally arrives, they come back to life again.”

Emma blinked. He was telling her to hope. That life could be good once more, if different, that she might even be forgiven.

But for Emma her guilt was now, and ever-present.

And spring seemed very far away.

CHAPTER THREE

B
Y
THE
NEXT
DAY
, Emma had pulled herself together enough to meet with Melanie Simmons. She wanted this new client as much as Melanie wanted her help, and like Frankie, Melanie had connections. They met at the Simmons's house for a walk-through, then drove to Bluewater Grille, a favorite local restaurant.

Once they'd ordered, Melanie leaned forward, clasping her hands and resting her forearms on the table. “I'm told no one does exactly what you do,” she said, and Emma felt her competitive spirit kick in.

“Actually, I'm part household organizer, part shrink. It's a matter of my asking the right questions rather than answering them.”

“More than one person has told me how well you get to the heart of things.” Melanie's eyes sparkled. “You remember Anna Carstairs's garage? Edie Van Kamp's family room?”

“Yes, of course.” Both had been hard-to-please clients—like Mrs. Belkin. Edie was another friend of Frankie's, and she suspected curiosity had brought Anna to her. “I hope they were satisfied with my work.”

To her surprise Melanie said, “That's why I'm here.”

Emma leaned back as their food was put on the table.

“I'm so glad we were able to meet this morning. You were right. Your storage needs are out of control.”

“Four growing children keep me busy.”

Two boys—eight and six—and twin girls, who, for Emma, would be the hardest part of the job because of their age.

“Your boys' rooms have adequate storage,” she said, “for their action figures, trucks and cars and books.” Optimus Prime. The Vindicator. “But the girls need cabinets and bins so everything isn't scattered around or lost.”

“Three-year-olds drop toys everywhere,” Melanie agreed. “They leave clothes wherever they land.”

Yes. I know.
Emma took a bite of the shrimp she'd ordered. She wanted to enjoy her meal, not envy Melanie her healthy, happy children. But the delicious food had no taste.

She waited until her voice sounded steady. “Your girls are typical of that age. Let me show you what I'm thinking.” She leaned down to pull the sketches she'd made from her bag. “Their room is a good size. I love this arched window with the built-in seat, but in addition to more storage the twins will need a clear area for play.”

She let Melanie study the drawings.

When she'd finished Emma said, “You have a beautiful home. Together we can polish the girls' room to perfection.” She added, “The first step will be sorting. One pile to keep, another to give away or donate to charity, a third to throw out.”

Melanie groaned. “I don't think we can include the girls for that task. They'll want to keep everything. I'll warn you. There will be drama.”

Emma tried to smile. “Don't I know. Grace was fourteen when I married Christian. And there's still drama.”

Melanie grinned. “Oh, yes. Grace has always been a queen.”

Emma smiled at last. “It's not easy to persuade people of any age to let go of...a lifetime's accumulation of clutter.” She gave up trying to eat. “That's all it is, really,” she said. “Emotional junk.”

“So we're all like those people on
Hoarders
?” Melanie asked.

Emma nodded. “I tell my clients to photograph an object, instead, so they can keep the memories they associate with it. But why hang on to the actual Easter hat you wore ten years ago—or whenever people wore Easter hats? Or that shapeless sweater you bought for your first date with the man you married?”
With Christian
.

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Outdated pants, moldy teddy bears...”

Or sheer hypocrisy on Emma's part? How could she even think about sorting someone else's clothes when Owen's toys and books were still in his room? She hadn't gone inside since the day everything had changed and she'd wrapped her own guilt around her like a quilt.

Emma cleared her throat. “If people would get rid of one item before making room for something else—the ‘new one in, old one out' rule—in no time clutter wouldn't be a factor.”

“‘No More Clutter,'” Melanie said with a quick smile.

“That's my goal.” She hesitated. “Still, it's amazing how hard it can be to give up the past.”

Melanie studied the drawings again. When she glanced up, her smile was even wider.

“This is really cute, Emma. It has the style I want.” She turned the sketches so Emma could see. “I'm a little concerned, though, about where to put their clothes. The closet in that room is tiny.”

“So are their clothes,” Emma reminded her with an answering smile she couldn't quite feel.
Fake it till you make it
. But she kept seeing the unfinished playroom in her own house, the bedroom where Owen's clothes lay untouched in the drawers, his hamper still filled with dirty shirts and pants to be washed.

“What about an armoire here?” she asked. “You could get one with shelves above and below. There'd be space to hang dresses and so on in the middle. Dress-up hats, small purses, glittery shoes can go on the upper shelves. Which—I should point out—lets you keep some of that under control. No costume parties unless you give permission.”

Melanie picked at her crab salad. “But then the closet...?”

“You can use that to store winter coats and bulkier items, extra bed linens and blankets. Unused toys. Some parents like to rotate items so some of them always seem ‘fresh' and appealing all over again.” She pointed on the drawing to the wall space on either side of the window seat. “Right here we could put bookshelves. The girls can show off their favorite toys or, later on, books, prom pictures...”

“What about beds?” Now Melanie was frowning. “I was thinking bunk beds to save room. So they'd have that extra floor space they need to play.”

“There's enough right here and your girls are still little. Maybe twin beds with drawers beneath would be better for now? No climbing. When they're bigger, we can rethink.” Assuming Melanie still wanted to work with her then. “With the right furniture this room can carry your girls straight through until college—unless they want separate rooms by then.”

“I doubt that will ever happen. They're inseparable, which isn't uncommon with twins. After all, they've been sharing from the very start.”

“Then the room will grow and change with them. I think you'll like what our suppliers have to offer.”

They discussed the needed play space, a budget, and scheduled their next meeting, when Emma would present her formal bid. Then she held out her hand. She hoped Melanie didn't notice she was shaking.
Can I do this? I have to.
“So. We're in business?”

Melanie beamed. “Of course. I'm delighted.”

Emma let out a breath. Difficult. But done.

Or rather, just beginning.

* * *

S
TARTING
A
NEW
PROJECT
always recharged Emma's batteries and this one was no different, even though it was fraught with feelings she didn't want to face. By the time she parked in the lot at No More Clutter on Market Street, after first checking the progress at another job site, she was still riding high. Though she'd been nervous, her meeting with Melanie had gone well. She couldn't wait to tell Grace.

“Guess what?” she said, opening the door to the shop. “Great news. Your mother has hired us to do part of her house!”

But as she entered the store, she remembered that it might not be hers for much longer. Grace didn't answer and Emma saw her loading up her backpack. It was only three o'clock. This wasn't the first time her new assistant had cut her hours short.

Watching her, Emma bit back a sigh. Until now, this had been one of her better days. Certainly she wasn't in the mood to quarrel.

She nodded at Grace's bulging bag. “Business slow this afternoon?”

Her eyes, the same gray-green as Christian's, didn't meet Emma's. “The only person who came in was Mrs. Turner. She doesn't care for the drawer pulls she picked out after all. I showed her some other samples and a few catalogs.” She stuffed a cardigan sweater into her bag.

“Grace, we have several hours before closing. Two people have promised to stop by late this afternoon. What did you plan to do, put the closed sign on the door and walk away?”

Grace looked down at the pad of paper on her desk. Emma saw a few scribbles there. “I was going to leave a note.”

Not good enough. “What if I'd gotten tied up? And one of those people turned up at four thirty wanting to ask about a whole house makeover?”

“They could call tomorrow.”

This time, Emma did sigh. Their relationship was generally good, but there was always some underlying tension between them. After all, Emma had partly taken the place of Grace's mother.

“This is the third time, Grace. You can't just pick up and go. I understood the first time because you had a dental appointment. And the second you had to change and meet Rafe before dinner with friends, but this can't continue.”

“Hey, don't look a gift horse in the mouth—so to speak,” Grace said.

“If you're going to tell me again that you're practically free labor, please don't.” Emma counted to ten. “I'm paying you a decent wage, the most I can afford right now. You know business has been off—”

Grace's mouth tightened. “Which is exactly why I was leaving.”

“—but unless we maintain certain standards here, it will fall off even more.” Emma wanted to groan. The rosy glow from her lunch with Melanie had vanished. “Let's face it, no one really
needs
us. We're a luxury product. That's why we have to up our game, offer things no one can resist.”

She knew she sounded stiff, and didn't mean to, but Grace didn't seem to have a strong work ethic. Maybe Emma couldn't blame her for that. Had she and Christian spoiled her? Right along with Melanie?

And now there was Rafe, who also tended to indulge her. At thirty, he was ten years older than Grace and although he might've been ready for marriage, Grace hadn't been—that's what Christian said, anyway. They'd eloped in July, little more than six months after the accident, breaking Christian's heart all over again.

Grace continued to pack her bag, her long, light brown hair—like Melanie's—swinging. She crumpled the half-written note, then threw it at the wastebasket beside her desk. She missed and the wad of paper fell to the floor. Emma wasn't surprised when she didn't bend to pick it up. Grace would fit right in with Melanie's twins.

“If you need to get home early, Grace, maybe we should officially cut your hours—and your pay. I love you,” Emma said, “but when we're in this store I'm not your stepmother. I'm a business owner and I can't afford to be lenient. If you don't want to work, that's fine. But I won't make an exception, even in your case, for whatever whim has you cutting out now.”

“It's not a
whim
.”

“Then is there some good reason why you need to leave early today?”

“Rafe just called. Someone wants to see his—I mean our—condo today. He can't get away from the barn right now.”

The excuse sounded real enough, and she knew the couple had put their unit on the market a week ago, but Emma was tired of excuses.

“Can't you reschedule this showing? I know how important it is to sell the condo but—”

“If I don't work full-time, how can Rafe and I afford to buy a house?”

“Money is tight for all of us right now, but if we don't do more to keep this business going, there won't be a paycheck at all. For either of us.” She told Grace about the lease that would expire at the end of the year.

Grace made no comment.

Was Emma being unfair? While searching for the right words, she riffled through the phone messages on her desk. She stared down at a number and the letters, ASAP.

“I see we heard from Sally Stackworth today. What's her problem?”

“She doesn't like the laundry room cabinets we ordered.”

“Drawer pulls, cabinets...is anyone happy today?” Melanie Simmons, thank goodness, was happy so far.

“Not at the moment,” Grace said.

Emma took a closer look at her stepdaughter. She walked toward her for a quick hug, but Grace moved aside and headed for the door. “Please don't go yet, Grace. We need to settle this.”

“Well,” Grace said, her back to Emma as she twisted the doorknob, “at least you're willing to deal with
something
.”

Before Emma could open her mouth again, Grace had left the shop. In the parking lot her hybrid car started up, and she pulled out without even a glance in Emma's direction.

Emma stood in the doorway, watching the car turn onto the street, seeing Grace's stony profile at the wheel. So much for her success in getting Melanie as a new client—assuming she liked Emma's final bid. One wouldn't be nearly enough, and now Emma would have to stay late to put out the newest fires with Sally Stackworth and Mrs. Turner. And hope the other two potential customers actually showed up. She'd have to rethink her talk with Grace—and try to figure out where they'd gone wrong.

Am I doing anything right?

* * *

I
T
WAS
ALMOST
dusk when Christian turned into the driveway at Mountain View Farm. The green-and-white sign by the gate proclaimed it was home to Tennessee's finest, and famed, Walking Horses.

He hadn't intended to stop, had in fact been on his way to see his mother, as Emma had asked, but in the end he couldn't avoid the detour. He had another reason for this visit.

His hands shook as he unlatched the gate. He slapped them against his thighs, got back in his car and drove through. Then he relatched the gate behind him, and strained for a glimpse of the General.